VII — SEVEN OF WEED KILLERS

More about VII — SEVEN OF WEED KILLERS

Disclaimer: I don’t believe in herbicides. Not the bottled kind, anyway. The real poisons are already out there—sunflowers with their quiet root sabotage, crabgrass running its underground rackets like a low-budget crime syndicate. Nature doesn’t need our help to get aggressive.

The trick with crabgrass isn’t chemical warfare—it’s jurisdiction. Don’t walk the beds. Don’t compact the soil into something that favors the thug over the citizen. Keep it loose, keep it open, and when the green offenders show up, pull them out by the roots like you mean it. Dig a little. Break the ground. You’re not just removing the plant—you’re dismantling its infrastructure.

That’s the secret nobody wants to sell you.

Because once you understand that, the whole aisle of poisons starts to look like a bad joke. Seven bottles lined up like answers, each one more confident than the last, all of them promising control while quietly erasing everything else.

My weeds? I choose them.

Prickly poppy—mean, beautiful, unrepentant.
Ground cherry physalis—lanterns hanging like soft evidence of something alive and slightly illegal.

You don’t eliminate a system like that. You participate in it.

Every time you reach for a herbicide, you’re not solving a problem—you’re declaring war on a language you never bothered to learn. You spray, things die, and for a moment the world looks obedient. Clean. Quiet.

Too quiet.

Because now you’ve removed not just the crabgrass, but the conditions that taught you how to deal with it. You’ve traded skill for dependency, attention for convenience. That’s the real toxin—the one that doesn’t come with a label.

So ask yourself, before you pull the trigger on any of those seven solutions:

What is an invasive species?

And more importantly—

Who’s the most invasive species in the garden?

The answer isn’t printed on the bottle.